Broken Brotherhood
by okami009
Summary: The aftermath of the WAR! update. The soldier finds himself triumphant, but at a terrible cost...his only friend. My fist one-shot.


-1The Red-clad Scottish demolitions expert shoved his eyelander into the dirt for support, straining to hold up both of his hands on the hilt to support his body weight. His body lurched a bit and blood coughed out of his mouth, already dead to the world. His head lifted upwards, driven only by anger and will, and roll it's only eye towards the Blue-dressed rocketeer across the bridge. Similarly, the soldier was keeled over, the pickaxe stuck in the ground a few feet in front of him as he vomited a mixture of blood and puke on the ground beneath him, getting the disgusting concoction all over his uniform, but still, he refused to give up. His head, too, lifted up by a mixture of hate and spirit, driven to destroy the one person he thought of as a friend. Even though they were enemies, even though they tried to kill each other numerous times, even though it went against Soldier's ethical policies that traitors were the worst kind of scum in the world, he still found a friend in the black Scottish cyclops. How right he was then, and how wrong he was now.

The clouds rolled in and threatened to pour down on the bridge, which now lacked the cover above due to their harsh battle of exchanging ballistics. Now, there was only the flat bridge, a bloody demoman with a haunted sword, and a wounded soldier with a spirit-channeled pickaxe. Both struggled to pull out what was left of their strength to finish off their opponent. The BLU soldier readied his pickaxe above his head one last time, as the fighting spirit flowed through his veins. The RED demoman thrust the ancient sword to the sky, preparing for the final, decapitating blow. In a flash, the two thundered towards each other, weapons at the ready to deal the final blow, mere inches away from the other as they swung up to strike.

And like that, it was over.

The pickaxe swung upwards, piercing the ribcage of his former friend and evaporating the strength he had to swung upwards his old sword. The Scotsman dropped to the ground, releasing his blade and grasping the hilt of the Equalizer, using the last tiny sliver of energy to look up at the enraged soldier with a blank and tired expression. Time slowed to a crawl as he toppled sideways, exhaling the last bit of breath in his lungs, dead.

The BLU soldier stood triumphant over his enemy, glory rising up in him in avenging his broken pride. "YEAH, MAGGOT? I. AM. A. REAL. SOLDIER! I HAVE THE MEDAL TO PROVE IT! AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE? YOU'RE DEAD! MEANING NO ONE HAS TO KNOW YOU DRUNKEN PIECE OF…" While making his speech which he had prepared a few days in advance, he took the opportunity to continuously kick the beaten and bloody body of his enemy, further disgracing it in any way possible. During this period of humiliating the body, a small slip of white paper began to stick out from underneath the undershirt of the fallen warrior. The standing soldier, fueled further by his victory, decided to find out what this piece of paper was. As it turned out, it was a letter to his mother. A letter to his mother? Ha! Such a momma's boy! What's he written to his dear-old-mum anyway?

_Dear Mum,_

_ If you're reading this, then it probably means that I've killed that soldier boy. You know, the one I told you about? The one who betrayed me? Yeah, well, I'm sorry I've been such a disappointment to the family and all, holding only three jobs and flittering away all the money that I've earned without saving as much as Pa did. Thankfully, since I've killed that soldier-boy, I've had earned enough money to last three generations-worth of us! Great, right?_

_ Well, it may be great for you, but not so much for me. I know, as a mercenary I shouldn't be picking sides or finding friends and all because they'll most likely be dead tomorrow morning, and I know I was going against what Pa told me, but I couldn't help it. This…tradition of ours, Mum. It…it just isn't working out for me. Maybe you two had each other, but I don't have anyone. Never had. It's tough out here, being a bloody monster among the boyos. Most of them just leave me be, because they're afraid I'll blow something up in their faces. But really, all I've ever wanted was someone to be there. Someone to just…share the load with me, you know?_

_ Well, I met that soldier boy at that old projectiles convention about half-a-year back, y'know? Funny, it actually started out as a bar fight in the pub across the street. We found each other in the bar and recognized each other and decided to have it out. Well, you know a Scotsman's honor, so I took him to the clinic across town, made sure he was alright. They wanted to keep him in there for a day or two to make sure he was alright, though they had to tie him down to keep him from rattling around so much. And, like a good Scotsman, I stayed with him to keep an eye on him. He yelled about a good few hours or so, but eventually I dozed off. I came to about an hour later and found him quiet as a lamb, oddly enough. Apparently he had gotten tired of screaming so much._

_ It was quiet, I tell yah. An awkward quiet. So, I decided to open up a joke, lighten the mood up, you know? Told him he had a nice left hook. A chuckle, I didn't expect it. Then he said I had a nice taste in broken bottles of scrumpy. Then we just went off for hours talking about the bar fight, mum. Making jokes about how we broke just about every table in the bar and knocked a few poles out of the foundation too. The laughs went on, and after he got out, we decided to go down to the same bar, the same bar! For another round of drinks. I can't remember whether or not we got into another fight. I was pretty well out of it._

_ After that, well, we just kept meeting up after work every now and then at the local pub and eventually we went doing things together. Watching football games, going out fishing, visiting Vegas (yes, and I know how much you despise gambling, seeing hard-earned money flitter away so easily), all the like. And, I don't know, but somewhere along those lines, I knew I found a friend. Maybe it was that day he pulled me into the dumpster to hide from the cops when I blew up that bar by accident. It wasn't my fault that he just LEFT the potassium chlorate just laying around! But apart from that, he was my best mate. I knew I could trust him, no matter what. And I knew he could trust me, whatever happened._

_ Then the day came that that lady, what's her name, dropped off those three fine pieces of gear at our doorstep. I had no idea what to think, my best mate betraying me for a few shiny pieces of gear. But hadn't I done the same? The only thing I could think of was how this was going to play out. By the time you read this letter, he'll probably already be dead, but I can't accept that. Somehow, I know this will all be playing out right. Heck, maybe I'll introduce you to him over dinner someday! Tells great war stories, You'd be impressed. And even though he's stabbed my back, I still trust him. He's my one true comrade, my one friend._

_ Well, the battle's about to start for the day. I'll be sure to lop a few heads off for Pa. Hope to see you again next morning._

_Love, Tavish Degroot XVII_

_P. S. He can really hold up his liquor! A fine Scot like myself has trouble keeping up with him!_

The BLU soldier was completely lost for words. The last few sentences etched into his mind, stuck in an endless loop of uncertainty. He continued to read those last few lines over and over again, trying to see if there was something he missed. He couldn't see one. His enemy had told the truth.

All the strength in the BLU soldier's legs vanished, and he dropped to his knees. Droplets of rain fell on the man and his fallen comrade. He folded up the letter, shoving it in his pocket for later and leaned over the RED demoman. If it wasn't for the blood splattered all over him, it could appear as though he were sleeping. What had he earned from killing this enemy of his? A pair of boots. What did he lose?

His only friend.

Tears streamed from the soldier's eyes and his face contorted downwards into a painful frown. And he cried. He cried until his eyes threatened to fall out. The few onlookers from the distance, (namely, the snipers on either team who had taken interest in the battle) looked on in awe at the usually angry and tough soldier bawl his emotions to the sky. Never had they seen such a display of pure emotion as the soldier lay across his former friend, hoping that he would get up.

He sat up, palms pressed on the chest of his former comrade, as he took off his helmet to get a better look at him. With one shaky, despair-filled hand, he closed the single eye which took to staring upwards, wondering where the broken soul it contained had forever vanished to. With a few tugs, The soldier pulled out the equalizer from the body, leaving it as undamaged as he could before removing the heavy flak jacket. The BLU warrior gingerly lifted up the body, carrying with him only the half-full bottle of old whiskey on the body of the RED demoman. Slowly, he walked forward. Into the crimson base, turning left to the sewers. His enemies did not even try to stop him. The sight of an enemy carrying a dead ally is one to behold in a war such as this. People came and went like the winds, and many had grown accustomed to the many heartbreaks associated with fallen comrades. Not since the war began, did anyone go so far as to pay tribute to a dead ally, much less a fallen foe. So, it was with such awe that the RED team looked upon the BLU soldier as he entered the water below, not giving one thought of chasing after him. He was unarmed, and what heartless fool would fight against a man who had lost his best friend?

The soldier entered the water serenely, hardly making a wake in the cold liquid. The air seemed to flow around him, doing nothing to impair his path forward, but with an empty coldness that blew straight through him.

At last, he reached the edge of the sewer entrance, where the water opened up into a river from side to side. The warrior traversed for half a mile before finding a lonely riverbed, calm as the still rocks which surrounded it. He gently laid the body into the water, grasping the hands around the empty bottle of whiskey before giving his friend one final look, before letting it drift down the river.

Emptiness. Cold, dark emptiness filled a gaping hole in the soldier's soul. His friend had trusted him to the very end, even though he was filled with such blind rage. Who would accept this 'hero' into the gates of paradise? Not even the darkest depths of despair would accumulate the amount of punishment the lonely soldier would accept. As he watched the body float down the river, rain poured down trying to clean his heart of the deed. Nothing could hold in the black scar of betrayal, which would follow him to the grave.

With silence, the warrior struck his legs together and formed his spine rigid, bringing up his hand up sideways and bringing it to his forehead to salute the RED demoman. Tears streamed from the orbs in his eyes, mixing with the rain as he watched the lifeless shell drift away.

Yeah. That was depressing. But just and FYI, I often think of the most depressing stuff. So, if you're looking for something happy, you'll probably have to find another author. ^^;;;


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